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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27498343">Dear Catra Murphy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_Explosion/pseuds/Queen_Explosion'>Queen_Explosion</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety, Anxious Adora (She-Ra), Catra (She-Ra) Needs a Hug, Catra Has Issues (She-Ra), Depressed Catra (She-Ra), Depression, F/F, Glimmer (She-Ra) Swears, Human Catra (She-Ra), Hurt Adora (She-Ra), Implied/Referenced Suicide, POV Adora (She-Ra), Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra)'s A+ Parenting, Suicide</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-08 02:28:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,349</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27498343</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_Explosion/pseuds/Queen_Explosion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A She-Ra Dear Evan Hansen AU</p><p>OR</p><p>Catra kills herself and Adora has to lie about her and Catra still being friends.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Adora &amp; Bow (She-Ra), Adora &amp; Catra (She-Ra), Adora &amp; Double Trouble (She-Ra), Adora/Glimmer (She-Ra), Catra &amp; Glimmer (She-Ra)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Catra made her exit. She stared at her slumped form laying against the tree, an empty bottle of pills beside her right palm, a letter written by Adora in her pocket. She and Adora hadn’t been friends in a long time. Not since Adora closed herself off and walked out of Catra’s life in seventh grade. </p><p>Maybe she wouldn’t have killed herself if she didn’t push Adora in the hallway for laughing at her. Or if she hadn’t apologized to Adora in the computer lab, only to find a letter about Glimmer in the printer. Of course Adora would have feelings for her perfect sister and not her. Never her. Catra was nothing.</p><p>But who is she kidding? She would have killed herself anyway. She was a horrible person, always lashing out at everyone who cares about her, pushing everyone away. If Adora hadn’t left her, Catra probably would have pushed her away at some point. It only would have delayed the inevitable.</p><p>Better to burn out, right, than to fade away? Catra had watched videos about all the famous suicides before she did it. Ernest Hemingway. Robin Williams. Virginia Woolf. Hunter S. Thompson. Those people actually made an impact, Catra thought bitterly. She did nothing. She couldn’t even write a note. She used Adora’s instead.</p><p>Because even in death she couldn’t escape Adora’s shadow.</p><p>Her name. That was the last thing she wrote. On Adora’s cast. Not quite a goodbye note. But at least she was able to say goodbye to Adora, in her own fucked-up way. If screaming at her and accusing her of wanting to embarrass her in front of the school was a goodbye.</p><p> Well, she made her mark, at least. On a broken limb. Seems about right. Poetic if you think about it. And thinking is just about all she can do now.</p><p>Sometimes she wondered how it all came down to this. Dead body against a tree with nothing left to say.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dear Adora Hansen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Shadow Weaver is disappointed in Adora.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>            Dear Adora Hansen,</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s how all my letters begin. First the </span>
  <em>
    <span>dear</span>
  </em>
  <span> part, because that’s just what you write at the top of any letter. That’s standard. Next comes the name of the person you’re writing to. In this case, it’s me. I’m writing to myself. So, yeah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Adora Hansen</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After the greeting comes the actual meat of the letter: the body. My first line is always the same.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <b>               Today is going to be an amazing day, and here’s why.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Positive outlook yields positive experience. That’s the basic concept behind this letter-writing assignment. I tried to get out of it at first. For one, I don’t need help. I’m fine. But Shadow Weaver insisted, you know? Anyway, I told Dr. Perfuma, “I don’t think a letter to myself is going to help much. I wouldn’t even know what to write.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But, of course, Dr. Perfuma didn’t buy my crappy excuse of “I’m not a writer” so here we are. She told me writing the letter would help me explore, learn new things about myself or whatever. But I don’t need to explore anything. All I need to do is make it through high school without disappointing Shadow Weaver. She works so hard to give me food, water, a place to live, and all I have to do is be the top student. And top students don’t have </span>
  <em>
    <span>anxiety</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so yeah, I need to fix that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But anyway, I feel like therapy is kind of a waste of time. But other times I think the real problem is that I can never get myself to fully buy in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anyway, regardless of how pointless I think it is to write letters to myself, I ended up taking Dr. Perfuma’s advice--verbatim. Because the rest of the letter is tricky. The first line is just an opening statement, and now I have to support that statement in my own words. Classic English class stuff. But the problem is that I have to prove </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> today is going to be an amazing day when all evidence suggests otherwise. It’s not like you can write an essay about something that isn’t true, you know?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Every day that came before today was definitely </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> amazing, so why would today be any different? The last good day I had was before I found Catra’s letter in my mailbox in seventh grade, telling me how much she hated me and that we were never friends. That she was in love with some drug dealer. Because if she didn’t want to be my friend anymore, why would she ever return my feelings? So I moved on. But then again, maybe I didn’t--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I shake my head. I need to finish this letter before school starts or Shadow Weaver will be disappointed in me. And I can’t let that happen. So, it’s time to stop thinking about Catra and power up my imagination, make sure that every single molecule of creativity is wide awake and pitching in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Because today all you have to do is just be yourself. But also be confident. That’s important. Easy to talk to. Approachable. And don’t hide, either. Reveal yourself to others. Not in a pervy way, don’t disrobe. Just be you--the true you. Be yourself. Be true to yourself.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, that’s not right. That’s just a bunch of lies that even I couldn’t delude myself enough to believe in. Shadow Weaver doesn’t want me to just “be myself” or she wouldn’t have all these standards I need to live up to. And, yeah, I know she’s just trying to make sure I become a capable adult, but it’s so daunting sometimes. Overwhelming, like I can’t measure up. So I keep trying. And succeed. On the outside. Enough to satisfy her. But because of that, I don’t have the energy to make friends. Or do anything else. And now I don’t know how.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Deep breaths, Adora. Deep breaths.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I reach into my bedside drawer. I already took my Lexapro this morning, but Dr. Perfuma says it’s fine to take an Ativan, too, if things get really overwhelming. Well, things are really overwhelming, so I guess this qualifies. Shadow Weaver doesn’t like that I have to take medication to have some semblance of normalcy, but she would rather have her standards of perfection met, so she tolerates it. Whatever Dr. Perfuma says goes. She wants me to be better, after all. Perfect.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, you just decided not to eat last night?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s Shadow Weaver, standing over me, holding the twenty-dollar bill I didn’t use. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I shut my laptop and shove it under my pillow. “I wasn’t hungry.” I plaster on the fakest smile on my face and hope she buys it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Shadow Weaver isn’t an idiot so she shakes her head, casting a disappointed glance in my direction. “Oh, Adora. You need to be able to order dinner for yourself if I’m at work. How are you supposed to be successful if you’re malnourished? You can do it all online now. You don’t even have to talk to anyone.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I cringe at her condescending tone. She doesn’t understand the judging looks I get whenever I interact with someone. I know it’s just all in my head, that the people don’t really care what I do, but still. Shadow Weaver doesn’t understand how hard it can be sometimes. Talking to people.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “I’ll do better next time, Mom.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is what you’re supposed to be working on with Dr. Perfuma, is it not?” Shadow Weaver stepped closer to my bed, her red eyes boring holes into my soul. “If she is not working for you, I will have to make arrangements for another therapist to help you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The threat isn’t spoken, but it’s implied. There, hanging above us in the air, waiting for my answer so it can manifest. “No, no! She’s great! Everything is going smoothly! This is just...just a minor setback! I swear!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t voice her doubt. This time. “Very well. You may continue seeing Dr. Perfuma as long as she is helping you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But now she’s circling my bed, arms crossed, scanning the room like it’s somehow different from where she was last in here, like there’s a new answer to the great Adora conundrum waiting on my dresser or hanging on my wall that she can finally find if she looks hard enough. Believe me, considering how much time I spend in this room, if the answer were in here, I would have spotted it already.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I slide off my bed and pull on my boots.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Speaking of Dr. Perfuma,” she says. “I made you an appointment with her for this afternoon.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Today? Why? I’m seeing her next week.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know,” she says, staring down at the twenty in her hands. “But since you had this ‘minor setback,’ I thought you could use one sooner.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because I chose to skip dinner one night? I should have just pocketed the money so she wouldn’t have known, but if there’s one thing I know about Shadow Weaver, is that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> finds out eventually. And the quiet wrath of her finding out that she’s been lied to? It’s not worth it. Trust me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s more than just the unused twenty. Maybe I’m giving off an extra-worrisome vibe that I’m unaware of. I stand up and check myself in the mirror. I try to see what she sees. The lack of perfection that needs to be fixed. I can’t find it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything seems to be in order. Shirt buttons are lined up. Hair has been brushed into a neat ponytail. I even took a shower last night, something that has been hard to find the motivation to do lately.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t bite your nails, Adora,” Shadow Weaver chided in the mirror. “You have such lovely nails. It would be a shame to ruin them.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry.” I stop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver turns to leave. “Have you been writing those letters Dr. Perfuma wants you to do? Those pep talks? You really have to keep up with those, Adora.” The disgust is painfully obvious in her voice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The implied meaning behind those words is not lost on me. I need to keep up with my therapy assignments and show that I’m improving or else I will be whisked away to another therapist, another method of treatment so her precious daughter will be perfect again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was just working on one, actually,” I say, proud that I don’t have to lie this time. Did I mention that Shadow Weaver doesn’t take too kindly to lies?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good. Dr. Peruma will want to see it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know. I’ll finish it at school.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Those letters are important, Adora. They’re going to help you get better.” She put her hand against my cheek, finally looking at me with approval again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She ruins it by saying, “I don’t want another year of you sitting home alone on your computer every Friday night. You need to put yourself out there and make friends. Good friends. Good influences.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The silent disapproval of Double Trouble is implied. She never did like any of the few friends I seemed to make. She hated Catra, but I assume she had a good reason to hate her since Catra hated me. And Double Trouble is honestly more of a family friend since Shadow Weaver is sort of friends with their parents.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I know what you should do.” Shadow Weaver pulls out a Sharpie from the cup on my desk. “Go around today and ask the other students to sign your cast. That would be the perfect icebreaker, don’t you think?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t think of anything worse. That’s like panhandling for friends. I didn’t think Shadow Weaver would want me to come across as less desperate. But maybe she doesn’t think it’s desperate. It wouldn’t look desperate coming from her. She never had a short supply of confidence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure, sounds great,” I say instead of voicing my feelings. Because that’s one easy way to lose favor with her, not doing what she says. She probably knows better than I do, anyway. I take the Sharpie, stifling a sigh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She heads for the door and just when I think I’m in the clear, she just turns with an uneasy smile. “I’m proud of you, Adora.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Good.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her smile stays plastered on her face as she heads off to work.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> I know what she means by that ‘I’m proud of you’ statement. It’s conditional. I have to make sure I can keep it up so she doesn’t get disappointed again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I open my computer again and read what I’ve written so far. Sometimes these letters do the opposite of what they’re intended to do. They’re supposed to keep my glass half full, but they also remind me that I’m not perfect. Not even close. I’m not even normal. No one else at my school has an assignment from their therapist. No one else even has a therapist, probably. They don’t snack on Ativan. They don’t definitely don’t disappoint their mothers by not being good enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t need reminding. I know I’m not right and that I haven’t been in awhile. Believe me, I know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This is going to be an amazing day.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yeah, that’s a total lie. Maybe if a portal swallowed me whole and moved me to a different dimension where I was a great hero-warrior-princess-goddess or whatever and had friends, good friends who would do anything for me, then maybe today would be an amazing day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I’m not a great hero-warrior-princess-goddess or whatever and I don’t have good friends who would do anything for me, or even actual friends that don’t act like they hate me. So, I just close my laptop and sigh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like it or not, today is the first day of senior year. So good for me.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. How was your summer?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Adora keeps getting asked about her summer...also Double Trouble is a dick and Bow is lonely.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I’m finished at my locker, but I’m still standing here, pretending to look for something. There’s too much time before the bell rings, and if I shut my locker now, I’ll be forced to hang around. I’m awful at hanging around. Hanging around requires confidence and the right clothing and a bold but casual stance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra is a master at hanging around, always whipping her hair out  of her face and keeping her legs shoulder-distance apart. She even knows what to do with her hands: four fingers inside her jean pockets and thumbs through her belt loops. She’s brilliant.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to do what Dr. Perfuma and Shadow Weaver keep asking me to do--engage--but it’s not something I can just </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I have to work up to it. It’s a process. A process that I can’t bring myself to follow through on.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I walked onto the bus this morning, everyone was either talking to their friends or staring down at their phones. What am I supposed to do? Nobody wants someone interrupting their conversation and people on their phones just scream ‘I don’t want to be bothered’ so there goes any shot at making ‘good friends’ as Shadow Weaver puts it. Besides, I’m the only senior who actually rides the bus, so that’s another factor. Most of the bus riders are freshman and sophomores.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I shut my locker and command my body to rotate exactly 180 degrees. I keep my head low enough to avoid eye contact but high enough to see where I’m going. Lonnie Mitchell is showing off her Invisalign to Kyle Lin. And then there’s Mermista and Sea Hawk making out by their lockers. It’s very wet. Don’t stare.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I make a pit stop at the water fountain. I’ve already forgotten the plan. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Make good friends.</span>
  </em>
  <span> How am I supposed to do that? Ask people to go see a movie after begging them to sign my cast? I may be a nervous wreck, but at least I have some dignity. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Over the running water, I hear a voice. I think the voice could possibly be talking to me. I stop drinking. There is indeed a person standing next to me. His name is Bow Beck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, how was your summer?” He says, the biggest smile on his face. “Adora, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bow sat in front of me in precalc last year, but we never spoke. Are we speaking now? I’m not convinced. “My summer?” I repeat dumbly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, your summer. Mine was productive,” Bow says. “I did three internships and ninety hours of community service. I know, it’s a lot, but my dads want me to, you know, follow in their footsteps and all that.” He lets out a nervous laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why is he telling me all this? “Yeah. That’s, wow. But why--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bow continues to ramble on about some people he met over the summer--Entrapta and Hordak?--but it’s kind of hard to pay attention when I can feel Double Trouble’s eyes on me. I can’t tell where they are, but I know they are nearby. Double Trouble always had this unique ability to blend into a crowd.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I almost ask Bow to sign my cast, just to get the nagging voice in the back of my head that sounds a lot like Shadow Weaver to shut up. But before I could finish my sentence, Bow interrupts me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god,” Bow exclaims, louder than necessary. I cringe as I imagine the judging glares of the other students in the hall. “What happened to your arm, Adora?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I unzip my backpack and dig around for my Sharpie. “I broke it. I was--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, really? That’s awful. My brother broke his arm this summer too. He fell off a ladder in the library. He also got a concussion. He won’t go back into the library anymore.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh...that sucks.” I don’t know how to respond to that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know, right?” He says, his smile never wavering. Why is he like that? How can he be so damn cheerful all the time? “Happy first day!” He waves at me as he continues on his path to success.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble seems to materialize in front of me just as Bow walks away. “Is it weird to be the first person in history to break their arm from masturbating too much or do you consider that an honor?” They say, much too loudly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, that’s not--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble interrupts me. What is it with people interrupting me today? “Paint me the picture. Lights off. Smooth jazz in the background. You’ve got Glimmer Murphy’s Instagram up on your weird, off-brand phone.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble and I have a history, as I’ve mentioned earlier. Their mother sells real estate. She’s the one who found my mom and me a new place to live after my dad left. For a few years there, the Kleinmans would have us at their swim club in the summertime and we’d go to their house for dinner. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I let out an exaggerated sigh, knowing that dramatics is one of the few things that will actually get Double Trouble’s attention. “Do you want to know what really happened?” I ask.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not really,” they say with a shrug.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something’s driving me to say it, to share it with someone, maybe just to set the record straight. No, I was not stalking Glimmer Murphy’s Instagram, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> Murphy’s Instagram. Not on this particular occasion, anyway. “What happened is, I was climbing a tree, and I fell.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You fell out of a tree? What are you, like an acorn? That’s not a very compelling tale.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know how I was working as an apprentice park ranger this summer?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. Why would I know that? You’re not very interesting, darling.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I decided to ignore that last comment and continue with my story. “Well, anyway, I’m sort of a tree expert now. Not to brag. But I saw this incredible forty-foot tall oak tree and I started climbing it and then I just…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fell?” Double Trouble says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, except it’s a funny story, because there was this solid ten minutes after I fell when I was just lying there on the ground, waiting for someone to come get me. ‘Any second now,’  I kept saying to myself. ‘Any second now, here they come.’”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble sighs dramatically. “Well, did they?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. Nobody came. That’s what’s so funny.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, honey.” They look embarrassed </span>
  <em>
    <span>for</span>
  </em>
  <span> me. But hey, I’m in on the joke. I know how pathetic it sounds that I waited there on the ground for someone to come and help me. I’m trying to have a laugh at my own inadequacy, but as usual, my delivery is way off. I can’t get what Shadow Weaver would say to me if she saw me right now out of my head. Pathetic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble hasn’t walked away yet, so I ask a question that I stole straight from Bow Beck’s mouth. “How was your summer?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I had a hit performance at theatre camp, if you were wondering. And I got to second base with this random person from camp, which is cool, if you’re into that sort of thing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It bugs me how dismissive Double Trouble is off everything. It’s like they don’t care about anything unless it’s theatre, and I just don’t get it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Actually.” The Sharpie is still in my hand from earlier. I don’t know why I’m even bothering with this whole cast-signing thing, but I can’t disappoint Shadow Weaver, so here I go. “Do you want to sign my cast?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They laugh. They laugh right in my face. I can feel myself wilting. “Why are you asking me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know. Because we’re friends?” I try. I really do try. I know Shadow Weaver doesn’t particularly like Double Trouble, but it’s better than not having any friends at all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>family</span>
  </em>
  <span> friends,” Double Trouble says, exasperatedly. “That’s, like, a whole different thing and you know it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If it’s possible for me to shrink any further into myself than I already am, I just did it. It’s not like I didn’t know that. Those words have slipped out of Double Trouble’s mouth enough times to make that very clear. It doesn’t stop it from hurting, though.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell your mom to tell my mom I was nice to you or whatever or else my parents won’t pay for my car insurance,” Double Trouble says, and walks away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course Double Trouble needs to get something out of it to be nice to me. That’s just who they are. Double Trouble’s a jerk, but they’re not, like, the worst ever. They act like they’re god’s gift to humanity, but they’re not totally convincing. I just wish they were more genuine and didn’t feel the need to play a part all the time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But isn’t that what you’re doing?</span>
  </em>
  <span> A nagging voice tells me. The voice that sounds like Shadow Weaver.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I make it to class just as the bell rings and find a seat. As I’m getting situated, I feel a slight sense of accomplishment. No names yet on my cast, but I’ve already interacted with more people than I did the entire first month of school last year.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Still no names though. No friends, either.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I shake my head. It’s only the first period. I can still get through the day without disappointing Shadow Weaver or myself.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Waving Through a Window</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Catra confronts Adora and steals her letter.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Nope. Not amazing. Not even close.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>First period was fine, meaning nothing terrible happened. Same for my next few classes. I answered a few questions. I was feeling decent, maybe even positive. Maybe this would really be the year I wouldn’t be a disappointment to Shadow Weaver.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But then, lunch. Lunch happened.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve never loved lunch. Not because I hate the food. I think the food is pretty good actually, you know, for school food. But the thing about lunch is that there’s no structure. Everyone’s free to go where they please, and where they please is nowhere near me. I tend to claim a spot at a forgotten corner table with the other randoms, slowly eating the cafeteria food so that I don’t run out before lunch is over. Because then I’d have to sit there and not talk to anyone and look like a loser. Shadow Weaver didn’t raise a loser.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And so, today I don’t sit in the corner. That feels like hiding and I promised Shadow Weaver I would try to make some new friends. Good friends. But I can’t bring myself to plop down at some random person’s table. I could be inadvertently stealing someone’s seat and then I could get into a confrontation, which could lead to a fight and I don’t want to fight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I spot Double Trouble carrying their lunch tray through the food line. I follow them, grabbing my own tray as I allow the lunch lady to scoop food onto my tray. Double Trouble is not very happy to see me, but I smile anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You again?” Double Trouble sighs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My instinct is to let them walk away, but I know that Shadow Weaver will be disappointed if I eat lunch by myself. Again. “I was thinking maybe I could sit with you today?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble looks about ready to vomit. Before they can officially deny me, they disappear behind a dark shroud. Passing between us is...Catra. I gulp and try not to look at her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Love the new trench coat,” Double Trouble calls out. “Very school-shooter chic.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I cringe. I can’t believe they would say something like that to Catra. Number One: Catra is going to claw their eyes out. Number Two: Catra would never do something like that and it’s very insulting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra halts, her heavy boots landing with a thud. Her heterochromatic eyes are ice cold, glaring daggers into Double Trouble’s skull, no doubt. She is definitely going to kill Double Trouble, and I’m not going to stop her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra isn’t moving, though. Just staring. Even after all these years, Catra’s gaze makes me shiver. She always had this feel about her, ice cold and calculating unless you were lucky enough to see her warmer side. The side that laughed at dumb jokes, pulled pranks, and would race you to the top of a tree and make fun of you when you lost.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m snapped out of my thoughts by Double Trouble’s voice. “I was kidding, kitten,” they tell Catra. “It was a joke.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, no, it was funny,” Catra says, venom rolling off her tongue. “I’m laughing. Can’t you tell?” The growl that exited Catra’s mouth was definitely not her laugh. I gulp.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble’s false confidence is starting to wane the longer Catra stares at her, sizing her up like a tiger sizes up its prey. I do not envy Double Trouble. (Though I would give anything for Catra to look at me again.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Am I not laughing hard enough for you?” Catra’s voice has an edge on it now. She’s ready to strike. I know that look on her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble begins to laugh nervously, which makes me laugh nervously. I can’t help it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re such a freak,” Double Trouble says to Catra with a roll of their eyes before darting away. I envy their ability to slip seamlessly into the crowd, like they belonged there. I should be following them, but I can’t move my legs. Why does Catra’s gaze have to do this to me?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra takes a step towards me, her eyes narrowing to slits. “What the fuck are you laughing at?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t know. I do stupid things when I’m nervous, especially when Catra is involved.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop fucking laughing at me,” Catra says with a snarl.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not,” I say, which is true. I’m no longer laughing. I’m officially terrified.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You think I’m a freak, Adora?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. I don’t.” I manage to say it confidently. Catra is not a freak.</span>
  <span> I am.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not the freak.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t say--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re the fucking freak!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>An explosion. Catra’s two arms, weighed down by all those black bracelets, slammed my chest and knocked me off my feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m on the ground. Catra is standing above me, a pained grimace replacing her snarl. She looks as shaken as I feel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I sit up and lift my hands off the floor, the dust from so many sneakers clinging to my moist palms. People walk by, stepping around me, some offering unhelpful commentary, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t hear them. I can’t move, either. I don’t want to. Why should I? The first time Catra acknowledges my presence in five years and she calls me a freak and shoves me to the ground. She must really hate me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, are you all right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look up. Shock. It’s Glimmer Murphy, Catra’s sister. I don’t think I ever talked to her before, even when Catra and I were friends.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” I say, feeling my face heating up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry about my sister,” she says. “She’s a psychopath.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Catra’s not a psychopath,” the words leave my mouth before I realize I’m saying them. “It’s my fault for laughing.” I mumble that part quietly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You laughed at my sister?” She raises an eyebrow at me incredulously, a soft smile gracing her lips. “Do you got a death wish or something?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.No! That’s not it at all!” I say quickly, words tumbling out of my mouth before I can make any sense of them. “You see, my friend, I, err, family friend, said something mean and then Catra heard them, and then they started laughing nervously, so then I obviously started laughing nervously. Well, not obviously. Because that’s not, like, an obvious thing to do. What a stupid thing to say! Anyway, so Catra thought I was laughing at her, which is so dumb, because I would never laugh at her. She’s not a freak! But she thought that’s what I thought, I guess? So, um, then...then she pushed me.” I got quieter at the end.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Damn. You’ve got guts,” She has this adorable half-smile on her face, the one she wears when she’s playing a solo in Jazz band. My heart melts. “So, is it comfortable down there on the floor or…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh yeah. I’m on the floor. Why am I still on the floor? I stand up and wipe my hands on my pants.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Adora, right?” Glimmer says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Yeah. Adora. It’s Adora.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m such an idiot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m Glimmer.” She puts out her hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wave my hand, instead of shaking hers, because of all the dust stuck to my sweaty palm, and I immediately regret doing it. I’ve somehow made this exchange even more awkward than it already was. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nice going, Adora</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
  <em>
    <span> You had a chance to make a ‘good’ friend like Shadow Weaver wants you to do and you blow it by being awkward.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I know. Catra told me who you are.” I cringe again. Why did I say that? Is she going to think that Catra and I are friends? What if Catra told her about me, and how much she hated me? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m such an idiot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She...she told you about me?” Glimmer looks about as confused as I feel. I feel my face heating up even more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I, well, yes, but that was a while ago!” I blurt out, trying desperately to save this horrendous excuse of a social interaction but failing miserably.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay then,” Glimmer doesn’t look very convinced. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m such an idiot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Glimmer lets out a laugh, though I don’t know why. I didn’t say anything funny. “I just never thought that she would care to tell anyone about me, that’s all. See you around, Adora.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m about to ask her to sign my cast, but the moment doesn’t feel right. I just watch her go, her beautiful pink hair flowing with her as she walks. Why do the Murphy sisters have to do these things to me?</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver texts me when I’m in the computer lab, asking me to call her. As much as I’m scared I’ll disappoint her, I’m thankful for the interruption. I’ve been staring at a blank screen for twenty minutes now. Talk about being a disappointment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m trying to finish this letter for Dr. Perfuma. When I started seeing her back in April, after a long list of therapists that after a while Shadow Weaver said weren’t good enough, I’d write a letter every morning before school. It became part of my daily routine. Every week, I’d show Dr. Perfuma my letters, and although I didn’t always believe in what I’d written, I felt a sense of accomplishment just seeing her hold that stack of papers. Maybe that was why Shadow Weaver let me see her for this long. Maybe it wasn’t the letters that were helping, but the sense that I had accomplished something. Maybe that made me get a little bit better, a little bit closer to perfection.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the Dr. Perfuma had stopped asking to see my letters, and pretty soon I stopped writing them. It’s not like the letters were really working. They weren’t changing my mind. And Shadow Weaver had stopped asking if I had written them. Until today.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But now Dr. Perfuma is expecting a letter at today’s appointment again. And if I don’t bring her one, she’s going to look at me with this disappointed stare. She tries to keep her face neutral, but she couldn’t fool me. I’ve become an expert at detecting disappointment in others and any amount at all, especially from Shadow Weaver, is unbearable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh yeah. Shadow Weaver. She called to say that she’s too busy to drive me to my appointment. I’ll have to walk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So here I am in the computer lab, trying to write a stupid letter for my stupid therapy assignment. I erased everything from this morning. All that crap about being true to myself. I just wrote it because I thought it sounded good. And of course it sounded good. Fantasies always sound good but they’re no help when reality comes and shoves you to the ground. Quite literally in my case. I’ve learned that I still don’t know who I am without Catra, even after all this time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was one silver lining to the day, though. Catra’s sister, Glimmer Murphy. She not only talked to me, but she knew who I was. And not because she connected the dots that I was Catra’s best friend when we were younger. Which is good. I don’t need another Murphy hating my guts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Glimmer and I had an actual conversation. That I messed up. And it was mostly about Catra. Okay, it was all about Catra. But even so, we had a conversation and it didn’t seem like she totally hated me afterwards. So. That’s good. I guess.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the thing is, I can never be Glimmer’s friend. Not in a way that matters. Because there’s Catra. And I can’t look at Glimmer without seeing Catra. And then I’m reminded that I messed up the one good friendship I ever had. And that Catra hates me. And then I think about how Shadow Weaver is going to be disappointed in me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then I’m left with a loneliness so overpowering it threatens to seep from my eyes. I have no one. Unfortunately, that’s not fantasy. That’s reality. And reality feels like a punch to the face. It feels like Catra staring down at me, calling me a freak. It’s the look on Shadow Weavers’ face when I know I’ve disappointed her. And even when she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> proud of me, she’s hardly ever there. She’s at work. Doing important hospital things.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Seriously, when it actually counts, who is actually there?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not Catra. She hates me. Not Shadow Weaver. She’s busy </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> she’s disappointed in me half the time and the other half she thinks I’m perfect. Not my dad. He left. Barely even know him. Dr. Perfuma charges by the hour.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But you know who </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>there? In front of me, on my computer screen, is just one name. Adora Hansen. Me. That’s all I really have.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I place my fingers on the keyboard. No more lies. No more fantasies. No more delusions. The truth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Dear Adora Hansen,</b>
</p><p>
  <b>It turns out, this wasn’t an amazing day after all. This isn’t going to be an amazing week or an amazing year. Because why would it be? Oh I know, because there’s Glimmer. And all my hope is pinned on Glimmer. Who I don’t even know and who doesn’t know me. But maybe if I could just talk to her, really talk to her, then maybe--maybe nothing would be different at all.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>I wish that everything was different. I wish that I was a part of something. I wish that anything I said mattered, to anyone. I mean, let’s face it. Would anybody even notice if I disappeared tomorrow?</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Sincerely, your best and most dearest friend, </b>
</p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t even bother reading it back. I hit print and pop out from my chair, feeling dejected. I was supposed to write a </span>
  <em>
    <span>positive</span>
  </em>
  <span> letter but then I wrote something that could border on a suicide note. Not that it </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a suicide note. Just that it </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> be a suicide note.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I should probably tear up the letter and throw it in the garbage before anyone gets the wrong idea. It’s not like I can show it to Dr. Perfuma if I don’t want to get sent to a mental hospital and I’d literally rather die than go there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I turn around, reaching for the printer, but instead I almost run into Catra. I flinch, preparing for another shove, or at least her to say something hurtful to me, but nothing comes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Adora,” Catra shoves her hand in her trench coat's pocket. “What happened to your arm?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well,” I say, not able to look Catra in the eyes. I’m too shocked that she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>talking</span>
  </em>
  <span> to me. After all this time. After she shoved me in the hallway. But I am somehow able to speak anyway. “I was working as an apprentice park ranger this summer at Ellison Park, and one morning I was doing my rounds, and I saw this amazing forty-foot tall oak tree, and I started climbing it, and I just...I just fell. But it’s actually a funny story because there was a good ten minutes after I fell when I was just lying on the ground, waiting for someone to come get me. ‘Any second now.’ I kept thinking. ‘Any second now.’ But, yeah, nobody came so…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra just stares at me. Then, realizing I’m finished, she begins to laugh. Not that snarl-laugh she did earlier in the hallway, the real, squeaky laugh I used to hear. It feels good. It feels nice. Does Catra not hate me anymore? Are we going to be friends again?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You fell out of a tree?” Catra says. “That is the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My face fell. I can’t argue with her there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Adora,” Catra says, the smile gone from her face. “Take my advice. You should make a better story. You’re a terrible liar, you know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know,” I admit. “I probably should.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra drops her gaze to the floor. So do I.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just say you were battlin a racist dude.” Her voice is quiet, but there’s a ghost of a smile on her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What? That’s a dumb excuse. Nobody would believe that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“To kill a mockingbird,” she says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“To kill--oh, you mean the book?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What else would I mean, dummy?” Catra’s tone is light and playful, a callback to how things were before she sent me that letter five years ago. Maybe she changed her mind now? I can’t let myself hope.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I, uh, I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gives me a glimpse of a smile, collecting her untamed mane of hair behind her ear. Her eyes glance down to my depressingly blank cast. “No one’s signed it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, uh, I know.” It’s kind of pathetic, how I can’t even get a single person to sign my cast when I’ve spoken to four people today. It just goes to show how much I can’t ever hope to be normal, let alone live up to Shadow Weaver’s expectations. It makes me want to punch myself in the face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll sign it.” Catra says with a nonchalant shrug. That’s Catra for you, showing the world that she can’t be bothered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” I can’t help but think what Shadow Weaver will think when she sees Catra’s name on my cast, the girl who hates me, the girl she had to spend precious time out of her very busy day to comfort me over. “You don’t have to.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you have a Sharpie?” Catra is surprisingly insistent, as if she didn’t hate my guts for the past five years. I don’t know what to say to her. But I give her the Sharpie anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra bites off the cap and lifts up my arm. I look away to prevent her from noticing the heat rising to my face. “Voila,” she says, capping the Sharpie as she stares down at her masterpiece.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look down. There, on the side of my cast that faces the world, stretching the entire length and reaching up to ridiculous heights, are five of the biggest capital letters I’ve ever seen: </span>
  <b>CATRA.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra nods, admiring her creation. Meanwhile I can’t help but think what Shadow Weaver will think about this. Would it have been worse to have come home with a blank cast? Or have to explain my weird encounter with Catra Murphy? Honestly, I can’t decide.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um. Thanks. Catra.” Her name feels foreign on my tongue. I’ve spoken it more times today than I have in five years, though her name certainly hasn’t left my mind. Saying her name feels good. It feels right, like it belongs on my lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now we can both pretend we have friends.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And with that one comment, my heart shatters. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pretend to have friends</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Of course she didn’t want to actually be friends again. It’s too good to be true. “Good point,” I mutter out, dejected.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“By the way,” Catra says lazily, reaching for a piece of paper tucked under her arm. “Is this yours? I found it on the printer. It has your name on it. Unless there’s another Adora Hansen?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m screaming inside. I can’t let Catra read it. That would end in disaster for sure. “Oh that? That’s nothing. It’s just this writing thing I do.” I force out a laugh that doesn’t feel anything close to natural.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You write now, Adora?” She cocks an eyebrow, mocking me with those beautiful eyes of hers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, not really. It’s not, like, for fun.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She reads more and her expression changes. “Because there’s Glimmer.” She looks up. A cold stare. Like earlier in the hallway. “Is this about my sister?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her lips tighten and I see now that whatever semblance of friendship had been restored has shattered, just like my heart. I step back. “Your sister?” is all I’m managed to stutter out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With one menacing stride, she swallows the space between us, making my breath hitch. “I’m not fucking dumb, Adora. It’s about her. I want to know why.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I never said you were dumb, Catra.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you thought it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t fucking lie. I know what this is. You wrote this because you knew that I would find it.” Catra’s eyes are a wildfire in the arctic, simultaneously cold and burning at the same time. It’s terrifying and I want nothing more than for the ground to swallow me whole.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” is all I manage to say. Catra really does leave me speechless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You saw that I was the only other person in the computer lab, so you wrote this and you printed it out so I would find it. Because you think you’re better than me, like you always have.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look around the lab, the panic rising in my chest. “Why would I do that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So I would read some creepy shit you wrote about my sister and freak out, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. Wait. What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And then you can tell everyone that I’m crazy, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. I didn’t--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shoves a stiff finger between my eyes. “Fuck you, Adora. Fuck you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m expecting those words to come with a red exclamation point, something painful, but they actually landed weak. She turns around and heads for the exit. I should say something. Tell her that this was just a whole misunderstanding.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I call after her, but she’s too fast. Clenched in her fists as she slips out the door is my letter. And now I think I know what she’s going to do with it. After all, she does hate my guts.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Wait Around for an Answer to Appear</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Adora anxiously waits for Catra to ruin her life.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Today is most certainly NOT going to be a good day. For starters, I can’t help but worry about what Catra is going to do with my letter. Nothing good, obviously. She hates me. She made that abundantly clear. The only thing that went well for me is that I managed to keep my cast covered this morning and Shadow Weaver didn’t notice the name on my cast. She didn’t ask, either, which was unusual for her. Maybe she’s just busier than normal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I begged Shadow Weaver to let me stay home from school, but she told me to not be a coward. She doesn’t know that Catra stole my letter or that she pushed me in the hallway. All she knows is that she signed my cast out of pity. Because that had to be why she did it, right? She hates me. It’s not like she would do it to be nice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dr. Perfuma wasn’t much help on the whole Catra incident either. Mostly because I didn’t tell her it happened. Because what was I supposed to say? Therapy is hard. Being honest about your feelings is hard. So I just typed up a new, kinda upbeat letter and watched as she read it on my laptop without comment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Look, the thing is, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>tried</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be honest. But sometimes honesty is not the best policy. Sometimes you have to hide the truth for everyone’s sake. The best I could do is talk in a very vague way about the Catra incident without bringing up all the baggage that the Catra incident carries.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Someone took something from me,” I told Dr. Perfuma. “Something private, and I’m worried about what will happen if I don’t get it back.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let’s play this out,” Dr. Perfuma said with one of her cheery smiles. I bet she was happy she finally got something out of me. “If this item isn’t returned to you, what’s the worst thing that could happen?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>True answer: Catra posts my letter online for the whole school to see, including Glimmer, and now everyone knows that I write embarrassingly earnest letters to myself, which is just bizarre and disturbing, and all the days that were already an effort to get through become even more of a slog, and I feel even more alone and inconsequential than I already feel, which I didn’t think was possible when I began senior year yesterday.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” I told Dr. Perfuma. See what I mean? Sometimes honesty is not the best policy. Sorry, Dr. Perfuma, but I just can’t tell you the worst case scenario because then you would ask why the person who stole my letter would do that, and then I would have to say it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Catra</span>
  </em>
  <span> and that just opens a whole new can of worms, that quite frankly, I am not ready to deal with.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So far, though, from what I can tell, the worst has not happened. Yet. There’s no sign of my letter online. I searched my name and nothing came up. No one’s talking about it. Catra hadn’t even been online since 3 pm yesterday. Not that I checked or anything. Not that I don’t follow her on Instagram but look at her account everyday checking for updates or anything. I’m not obsessed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I step onto the bus, unsure if it’s the engine that’s rumbling or my insides. No fanfare as I slink down the aisle to my seat. The kid in the row across from me is horizontal, snoring. The bus lumbers forward. Ten minutes until Catra murders me in front of the whole school.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or maybe sooner. Laughter draws my eyes away from my phone. Two rows ahead, a kid is cracking up. He leans across the aisle and presents his phone to his buddy. His buddy takes the phone. “No way,” he says. Now they’re both laughing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is it: </span>
  <em>
    <span>the worst thing that can happen.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Catra must have timed the attack for precisely this moment, when I was already on my way to school. She must know I still take the bus, if she still pays attention to me like I pay attention to her. Any second now the kids were turn around and gawk at the saddest loser on the planet: me. Sorry, Shadow Weaver. Guess I will never have friends.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I close my eyes and prepare to open them to a new nightmare, but all I see when I look is the buddy handing the kid’s phone back and the bus is quiet once more. I let out the breath that silently built in my lungs. No need to panic just yet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>English: no tragedies. Calculus: no problems. Chemistry: no explosions.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I make it to lunch unscathed. You’d think I’d be relieved, but no, the anticipation is murdering me. I just want it to be over already. Did Catra know that the suspense would be just as torturous for me as the actual execution? Of course she does. She knows me too well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Scanning the cafeteria for Catra. I don’t see her. Maybe she decided to skip today and use it to plan my murder? She does hate me. And she isn’t above skipping school. Though it is odd that I don’t see Glimmer anywhere either.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I spot Double Trouble at their usual table. I tap them on the shoulder. “What?” they say, clearly annoyed with me for bothering them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can I talk to you?” I fidget nervously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d rather you not.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Understood, but it’s not like I have anyone else to turn to and this is serious. “Have you seen Catra Murphy today? Or Glimmer Murphy?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I saw you talking to Glimmer yesterday. Finally making the move, darling? It’s about time you stopped being a withering coward.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s not that.” Though I’m certain my face is red already. I hate my face. “I just want to know if you’ve seen her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I haven’t,” Double Trouble says. “But I’ll definitely tell her you’re looking for her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, please, don’t do that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They finally look up. “It’s already done. Don’t mention it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As I’m leaving, they ask, “Ra? What’s that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They point to my cast. I purposely wore long sleeves today even though it’s, like, ninety degrees out. Only the last two letters of Catra’s name are visible. Catra’s covered so much real estate with her signature, I wasn’t able to cover the whole thing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She-Ra,” I blurt out. “Like the comic books. Big fan.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s pathetic,” Double Trouble laughs. “Couldn’t get a real person to sign your cast, so you pretend some comic book hero did. You’re full of surprises, darling.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I flush as I quickly exit the cafeteria. I hope tomorrow never comes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow was almost identical, but worse in a cumulative sense. Again, there’s no sign of Catra. She hasn’t been online either. I’m getting worried, but maybe she’s just high or something. Maybe her parents got mad at her and took her phone away. Or something. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t done anything yet. Maybe she’s waiting for her phone back so she can really humiliate me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now I’m home again and none of my usual methods of escape are doing the trick. I tend to watch a lot of movies. Comic book heroes, like She-Ra, for example. I like to pretend that I could be someone like that and not just, well, me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wish I could just talk to someone. I’ve been stuck in my own thoughts for two straight days now. Dr. Perfuma was no help (probably because I hardly tell her anything) and it’s not like I could tell Shadow Weaver about this. If she was disappointed before, she’d be super disappointed now. I want her to see the last two letters of Catra’s name peeking out from my long sleeves and think it’s someone else’s name that I have written down on my cast. Like Myra. or Flora. Or something like that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The only person I can think to talk to about this is Double Trouble. And they may laugh their way all the way to Sunday when they hear about this, but at least I wouldn’t have everything bottled up in my own head anymore. I message them about what happened with Catra.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble: </span>
  <b>A letter to yourself? What the crap does that even mean? That’s so weird.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Me: </span>
  <b>No, it’s not weird. It was an assignment.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble: </span>
  <b>For what?</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Me: </span>
  <b>An extra credit thing</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble: </span>
  <b>Why are you talking to me about this? You know I don’t care.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Me: </span>
  <b>I didn’t know who else to talk to. You’re my only family friend.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble: </span>
  <b>Oh my god.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Me: </span>
  <b>I don’t know what to do. She stole the letter from me and she hasn’t been at school for the last two days.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble: </span>
  <b>That does not bode well for you, darling</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Me: </span>
  <b>Neither has Glimmer</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble: </span>
  <b>???</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Me: </span>
  <b>What is she going to do with the letter?</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble: </span>
  <b>Who knows? Catra is batshit out of her mind, and she hates your guts. If she has a flair for the dramatics like I do, she’s going to ruin your life with it. For sure. I mean, I would. Creatively, of course.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I put my head in my hands. It seemed like Catra and I were finally having a civil conversation after all this time and then I just had to go and mess it up. Just like I always do. I shut my laptop and re-notice Catra’s name on my cast. That name is taunting me, reminding me that I almost had her in my life again. Before I messed it all up. And now she’s probably going to ruin my already miserable life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I walk to my window. It’s pitch-black outside. For the most part, I’ve always preferred night to day. At night, it’s okay to be hunkered down in your house. During the day, people expect you to be out and about. And by people, I mean Shadow Weaver. Whenever I am not living up to her expectations, which seems to be more and more frequent, she gives me this guilt-inducing glare and it’s not like that glare she gives me motivates me to do better. I mean, it does motivate me to do better but it doesn’t change my behavior. So I just sit here, feeling guilty.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Shadow Weaver isn’t here right now. She’s at work. So I can look out the window in peace, at least for now. But instead of feeling peace, I feel a cold sense of dread settle into my stomach. There’s a dark figure outside, resembling a person. I bite back a scream. It’s probably my neighbor or something. No reason to panic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But then I squint and the figure suddenly resembles Catra’s silhouette. I blink and it’s gone. Totally vanished from sight. I sigh. I really must be going crazy if I’m hallucinating the cause of my torment outside my window.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Part of me wonders what I would have done if Catra really was out there. Would I have said something to her? Apologized? Asked her why she hated me so much? No, I’m too much of a spineless coward to do that. So instead I sink into my bed, not even bothering to take off my dirty clothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p>
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